


More Than Just the Spare

by LogicalBookThief



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Gen, Parental Expectations, classic myserty twins, feels ahoy, insecure!Stanley, smart!Stanley, ugh Filbrick, yeah you better believe it, you're the worst, young stans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-25
Updated: 2015-08-25
Packaged: 2018-04-17 06:23:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4655994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LogicalBookThief/pseuds/LogicalBookThief
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It wasn’t that Stan was dumb. He just wasn’t as smart as his brother. But when you’re constantly being compared to your extremely gifted twin, there’s no silver for second place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	More Than Just the Spare

**Author's Note:**

> Another tumblr cross-post, located here: http://logicalbookthief.tumblr.com/post/127260249194/more-than-just-the-spare
> 
> And if you're unfamiliar with it, listen to 'More Than Just the Spare' which is a wonderful song cut from the finished product of Frozen, and it fits Stanley Pines unbelievably well.

Stanley stared at the hands clenched in his lap. It wasn’t the first time he’d been asked to stay after class and it certainly wouldn’t be the last; however, it was the first time with this particular teacher.

And to be honest, Mrs. Phreespirit wasn’t someone Stan ever foresaw having issues with. She was the only middle school staff member who didn’t have a stick up his/her butt and wasn’t afraid to let loose. She was fun, eccentric and totally nonjudgmental.

Most teachers had Stanley Pines pegged as a troublemaker the minute he walked through the door. And given his reputation, they probably had the right - but not Mrs. Phree. And whaddya know, she liked having him in class, told him so even.

“Relax, Stanley,” she laughed, after watching his leg bounce with nervous energy. “You aren’t in any trouble.”

“I’m not?” he perked, taken-aback. “Then why I am here?”

“I wanted to talk about the poetry assignment.”

“Oh,” said Stan, slouching. “Was something wrong with it?”

“No, not at all,” Mrs. Phree assured. “On the contrary, it was the best in class.”

That made Stan freeze, unable to believe his ears.

Believe it or not - and most people wouldn’t - but Stanley hadn’t always been a slacker, and he wasn’t completely unfamiliar with receiving a decent grade.

Stan had always done as well as Ford in English or history, at least when they were younger. He would always ace the history quizzes, loved learning about the proclamations of President Lincoln or Napoleon’s defeat at Waterloo.

And Stan was a _sucker_ for adventure stories. He used to have a copy of Treasure Island stashed beside his pillow. He would read until his eyes grew heavy and tired, and then his dreams would be filled with fantastic sea voyages and swashbuckling ventures.

Not anymore, though. There was a status quo in the Pines family; never mentioned but definitely adhered to, enforced even.

Taking slow, measured breaths, Stanley tried to remain calm. But Mrs. Phree kept going on about his stupid poem, what _a lovely read_ , _deserved an A_ , _where had he gotten the inspiration_ \- and suddenly he was nine-years-old and-

He hadn’t _meant_ to hear it.

It was a picnic or gathering, some sort of small get-together with the neighbors. Ma had Ford setting the table while she prepared the food and told Stan to yank his fingers out of his nose and fetch his father.

Pop was outside drinking beer and chatting with the other men. Stan hid out of sight, just within earshot, curious as to what they were saying (since adults always seemed to change the conversation as soon as a kid showed up).

“Hey, Filbrick,” said Mr. DiNozzo from across the street. “I always wondered, what the hell possessed ya to name both yer boys Stan?”

Stan listened intently. He had always wondered, too.

“Well, it’s no secret the wife and I weren’t expecting twins. And we only had the one name picked out so when she looks at me like, 'What’re we gonna do?’ I shrug and say, 'Name 'em both Stan.’”

The other men laughed uproariously. “Very uncreative of you,” Mr. DiNozzo snorted.

“Bah, they’re twins,” Filbrick dismissed. “Practically the same anyway.”

“My wife says that Stanford of yours shows signs of genius,” remarked Mr. Goldman, who they knew from the local synagogue. “She teaches at the elementary school.”

“And the other is _eh,_ okay,” he continued in a blasé tone. “Not as good as his brother, but well, always there in case the other one’s out sick, right?”

More chortles. “That’s the nice thing about twins - you’ll always have a spare,” Filbrick conceded.

From his hiding spot, Stan felt his stomach drop. What had they called him? A _spare?_ How could a person be a _spare?_

Spare was like having two of the same thing. Like an extra.

Having twins _was_ like having an extra kid… But while he might’ve been unexpected, did that make him unwanted, too?

A spare, Stan mused morosely. Was that all he amounted to? Just a copy of his brother? Destined to be forever second best, a second rate Stanford, not a first rate Stanley?

It was then Stan realized that if he was to be his own person, he would need to step out of his brother’s shadow. Find something that he did well or forever be considered the spare son. Discouragingly, he wasn’t good at much of anything except making people want to punch him.

Until Pop signed them up for boxing lessons. It was grueling work, starting out, but also a huge relief. Finally he had something he could do as well as Ford, something that could be _his_ talent. That endeared Stan to the sport more than anything else.

And along with his new skill became a new persona.

In a way, it was nice. People didn’t expect as much from you when they thought you were a meathead who’d gone a few too many rounds in the ring without a helmet. You got as much attention being the class clown as you did the brainiac, and while it earned you a bad reputation, at least you were _noticed._

But it came at a price. Punchers didn’t get As on history quizzes or read their English assignments. Math and science started to look like foreign languages around seventh grade, so scarcely passing those classes wasn’t a problem. The others took a little more effort - or lack thereof.

With a heavy heart, he tossed his beloved adventure books under the bed. Sometimes he read by flashlight, under the cover of a blanket beneath the bottom bunk, as his brother snored above. But only in secret. Only when nobody was watching.

After much adjusting and accepting, Stan came to appreciate his new identity. Enjoyed it, even. Everything was fine. Until this _damn_ poetry assignment.

He could’ve skipped it as he usually did. Could have copied something from a magazine or comic. Made up an excuse. Took the failing grade with grace and a sheepish shrug.

But when she assigned it, Mrs. Phree had told them to write about something they liked - something they were good at. She urged them not to worry about rules or structure, that the beauty of poetry was that it was perfect in its imperfections.

Plus, he liked Mrs. Phree. Maybe so much that he didn’t want to disappoint her like he did everyone else. But that backfired because he sure as hell never meant to _impress_ her, either.

“I dunno why you like it so much. I barely put any effort into it. Just wrote whatever came to mind. Doesn’t even _rhyme,”_ he prattled dumbly, in a panicked attempt to cover his ass. “It’s nothing special.”

“I beg to differ,” said Mrs. Phree, and without further adieu, began to reading aloud.

 

_“In the boxing ring he stands_

_A fighter with fists raised,_

_His goal to bring home gold_

_Today he fights to win_

 

_In the ring it isn’t so scary_

_‘Cause the blows last only a second_

_The pain is only skin deep_

_And that’s his favorite kind_

 

_His eyes are swollen and puffy_

_He won’t be reading tonight_

_But fighters don’t read anyway_

_So it’s really not sure a loss_

 

_At least that’s what he says_

_When he sits quiet in class_

_Knowing his place isn’t to answer_

_The questions only smart kids get_

 

_He likes being a fighter_

_It’s something he does best_

_He’s not bad at books or school_

_Just not as good as others_

 

_But there’s no silver for second_

_Outside of the boxing ring_

_And you can’t have brains_

_If brawns is your strength_

 

_And some battles can’t be won_

_Some competitions too steep_

_One thing about being a fighter_

_Is knowing when you’re beat_

 

_So if you can’t be the best,_

_Why not be the worst?_

_At least then you stand out_

_A face among the crowd_

 

_The boxer takes his stance,_

_Nose bloody, but who cares?_

_It still beats the pain_

_Of being just the spare”_

 

“Stanley, this is marvelous,” she gushed. Stan blushed, unused to such flagrant praise. “It’s poignant and real and just - _spectacular_ on so many levels. Seeing such depth and creativity in my students truly makes my day.”

He slumped further into his seat, stomach churning. One some level he liked being complimented, but on another, it made him sick with discomfort.

“In fact, there’s a poetry contest for students your age, and as your teacher, it would be my privilege to nominate your poem.”

“So other people can see?” Stan swallowed, chest tightening. “And know I wrote it?”

He didn’t know what to do. This wasn’t supposed to happen, not to _him_. School was _Ford’s_ thing. Would he be mad or hurt if Stan intruded on his turf? He couldn’t do that to his brother!

And what about Ma or Pop? Would they even care? Was it worth raising his hopes, only to face inevitable disappointment? It would be another academic award: another A lost among Ford’s millions. Or if he lost, another failure to add to his own collection.

“Stanley,” said Mrs. Phree kindly, as if reading his inner anxiety. “If you would prefer, I could submit the poem anonymously…would that be okay?”

Mutely, Stan nodded, drooping with relief. Yeah, that could…that should be fine. He relaxed with an exhale.

“And Stanley,” she went on, smiling with such care but no pity, never pity. “You know if you ever need to talk, about anything, my door is always open.”

Stan nodded, offering a small, gracious smile before he left.

As he exited the classroom, he noticed Ford waiting for him nearby, and the sight inflated him with affection for his brother. No matter what the status quo, at least they would always have each other.

“What was the hold up?”

Stan shrugged vaguely. “Mrs. Phree wanted to talk about my poem.”

“What about it?” asked Ford quizzically. Stan chewed his lip indecisively.

“…It was two days late,” he answered. “That’s all.”

**Author's Note:**

> Smart!Stan with major self-worth and identity issues is a thing near and dear to my heart. 
> 
> I won’t get into how he taught himself physics or how he’s a cunning-as-fuck conman, but what about his love for wax!Lincoln and old historical movies? He’s a total history buff and nothing can convince me otherwise. Also, the kid had a dream to sail the seven sears - you better believe he read Treasure Island & other adventure books.
> 
> Anyway, as always, feedback is very much appreciated!


End file.
